


Day 26: Milk

by Aichi



Series: Kinktober 2020 [26]
Category: Cardfight!! Vanguard
Genre: Breastfeeding, F/M, Light Bondage, Male Lactation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:07:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27775060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aichi/pseuds/Aichi
Summary: A continuation of the other Dragon Milk fics; Luard gets a surprise bodily alteration of his own.
Relationships: Morfessa/Luard
Series: Kinktober 2020 [26]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1951588
Comments: 6
Kudos: 8





	Day 26: Milk

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE READ THE OTHER FICS IN THE MILK SERIES FIRST OR THIS ONE DOESN'T MAKE SENSE I THINK actually please just don't read any of this at all because Oh My God
> 
> This one's for my favorite anon friend who likes the boob stuff! I think in the comments of the last fic I said there would be sex in the next part, but that was two years ago, and I never wrote it, and I'm a liar basically. This is going a total other direction instead. Whoops.

Luard is pretty sure the entire castle knows there’s something going on between him and Morfessa.

He hopes, if they figure out what it is, that one of them can clue him in, because he has _absolutely no idea_.

It had been hard enough to dismiss the once-daily visits to her chambers, but now — now that she’s apparently producing exponentially more milk, and has adjusted his feeding schedule accordingly — there’s absolutely no way no one has noticed him trekking up to her room three times a day. Between the feedings themselves, though, and the time spent processing the idea that _he has a breastfeeding schedule, what the fuck,_ there’s very little time to worry about what anyone else is thinking, or to get embarrassed about it.

After a while, it almost becomes comfortable. His skin still gets prickly and red as he disrobes for her, but he doesn’t fumble his buttons or zippers the way he used to, and the feverish arousal triggered by her dragonic milk gets easier to ride out every time. It’s still beyond him to really describe the process as _relaxing_ , and it’s definitely impeding his ability to get other work done, but he’s started to feel a tight, itchy anticipation building in his chest prior to their sessions that he really doesn’t have the strength to deny.

 _It must be another side effect of her milk_ , he reasons, slightly more forcefully than necessary. _It’s the only explanation_. They already know about its powerful aphrodisiac qualities, so there’s a real possibility it might have other mind-altering effects as well — like, for instance, addiction. He’s not about to latch onto the idea as a reason to end their… experiments, but it’s a valuable lifeline for his own sanity, a defensive ward against all those annoying things that people are constantly demanding he “work on”, like “confronting your own desires” and “expressing your feelings”.

Yeah, it’s definitely messing with his head. And he’d better keep an eye out for anything else unusual, he thinks; who knows what _other_ weird stuff it might be doing to his body.

For better or for worse, it doesn’t take long for him to find out.

It starts not long after Morfessa increases their schedule to four feedings a day; apparently, repeated stimulation increases production, or so she says, and Luard doesn’t exactly have the technical knowledge to refute her. He’s in his usual position, naked and half-curled in her lap, his hands tied comfortably but securely behind him as he works his mouth around her iridescent-scaled nipple. Morfessa’s fingers trail through his loose, untied hair as he suckles at her, his tongue and lips heavy with her weight and scent and taste. 

His skin burns at the flood of sweetness on his tongue, and he loses himself in it, as he does every time now; the rest of the world shifts out of focus until there’s only him and her, and the gentle blanket of her voice lulls him half to sleep as he drinks until she’s finally dry. Nothing else matters, not the stiff heat of his arousal, not the reality of what they’re doing, not the tightness stretching across his chest until— 

“Oh,” Morfessa says, with a precise, sharpened curiosity that abruptly dumps him back into reality, “now _that’s_ interesting.”

“Wha’ ish…?” Luard half-slurs around her breast. The fingers in his hair give a meaningful tug, and he detaches from her with a quiet _pop_ , sliding off her lap and shaking off the clinging tendrils of sleepiness at the edge of his senses. The room is still a little blurry, but there doesn’t seem to be anything amiss.

“Let me see.” She stands, and plants her hands firmly on his shoulders to keep him perched on the edge of her bed. With his own hands still bound, there’s not much he can do as her eyes drift down his body, and an amused smile begins to creep across her face, the kind of smile that would send anyone with half a brain and even the barest knowledge of Lady Morfessa running in fear.

“What?” he huffs, tugging pointlessly at his bonds. “What is it?”

“You really haven’t noticed? Hah.” One hand slides down his chest, her nails catching and trailing trailing sharp lines of pain over his flesh, towards— towards— 

A few drops of off-white liquid trickle traitorously down the skin just below his nipple.

“You have _got_ to be kidding me.”

“Luard,” Morfessa says, barely concealed triumph in her voice, “you’re lactating.”

Before he can reply that he’s _not_ , he’s _definitely not_ , there’s _no way_ , he would have _noticed_ — it’s probably just a few stray drops of hers, or something, because he would have felt something before if there was anything— if there was anything _building up inside him oh god that’s why his nightclothes didn’t fit right he just thought he’d gained weight or something THAT’S WHY his chest felt so TIGHT ALL THE TIME HE’D JUST ASSUMED IT WAS NERVES BECAUSE WHY WOULDN’T HE BE NERVOUS WHEN A BEAUTIFUL POWERFUL WOMAN LIKE HER WAS—_

Before he can say anything at all, she pinches the flesh around his nipple and _squeezes._

It’s like she’s reached right into the center of Luard’s chest and dragged out something that was just _aching_ to be free. The milk practically spurts from his nipple, splattering her palm and wrist, and her smile splits into a broad grin that’s almost uncharacteristically excited. A totally-uncalled-for wildfire races under his skin, sparks gathering under her fingertips as she massages the area and squeezes again, earning another small gout of— _fuck_ , it really _is_ milk. _His_ milk.

“I have to admit,” says Morfessa, “I really never expected this.” A thousand emotions race across her still-smiling face all at once, and Luard is pretty sure he could hear the gears of her brain turning, if only his own weren’t awash with a fiery disbelieving static because _oh my god I am lactating what the FUCK_. “Stay right there.”

There’s little else for Luard to do, considering how extremely bound and naked and _still erect_ he is, so he sits awkwardly as she turns away and rummages at her desk, willing his stupid chest to stop dribbling. It seems incredibly intent on continuing to do so now that she’s gotten it started, and the nipple she abused is now tricking small but _definitely real_ drops of milk without stimulation. A wet line marks their decent as they trail over the firm muscles of his stomach, and he’s suddenly terrifyingly unsure how much of the tightness in his chest is nervous disbelief and how much is— well— 

“Here we go.” Morfessa returns with a small glass vial, which she uncorks and holds under Luard’s other nipple. Before he can protest — and he’s not sure _what_ he could protest this with, exactly, anyway — she twists and pinches his flesh again, and a small spike of pain accompanies the tug in his nerves as he leaks into the vial.

Lifting it to the light, she swirls the small pool of liquid experimentally, watching it as it swills. It’s not much, really, but _any at all is too much_ , and Luard’s brain is still on an endless loop of _what the fuck, what the fuck_ , because, honestly, what the fuck.

“Is this going to, uh, stop?” he asks, once his mouth feels like obeying him again.

“Hm.” She doesn’t look at him, still occupied with inspecting the vial. “Probably not as long as you’re still drinking from me.”

She doesn’t elaborate. There’s no doubt that she’s right, of course, that’s definitely what’s caused it, but it doesn’t explain _how_ , or what the hell he’s supposed to do about it, or how he’s supposed to feel, or anything useful at all, really. His chest has stopped dripping, for the moment, but he’s now acutely aware of how stiff his nipples are, how tight and stretched the skin over his pecs feels, and he swears he can feel the weight of _fluid_ shifting beneath it, can hear a grotesque sloshing that might be milk or simply his own melted puddle of a brain.

“I don’t actually want to lactate,” he says, stupidly. Even as the words leave his mouth they feel clouded, uncertain, and yet totally unwilling to be dissected.

“That’s a shame.” Morfessa turns back to him, and her hand finds his shoulder again, lingering pointedly but not slipping any lower. “It should be impossible for a male to lactate without regular stimulation over an extended period, and yet— well, I’m assuming you haven’t been massaging yourself in private?”

“Of course I haven’t,” he snaps, defensively.

“Of course you haven’t. And yet, you _are_ producing… it’s only a little, but it even started leaking without help. It could be that you actively drinking from me encouraged it.” She laughs, and Luard shivers. As close as she is, it’s hard to look anywhere but at her own still-bare breasts, a prominent sheen of drool still fresh around their nipples. Luard almost wants to bury his face in them just to escape whatever the hell is happening right now, to hide from whatever weird feeling is making his cheeks glow with totally inappropriate heat. “I still have a lot to learn about my own production, apparently,” Morfessa continues. “It’d be a shame to stop our sessions now, especially when I think we were both enjoying the process so much, but I’d imagine the easiest way to stop this,” —she gestures down at his chest— “is to remove what's most likely stimulating it. I'd say it should clear up fairly quickly after that.”

A lump forms in Luard’s throat, and he swallows heavily around it. Suddenly, he’s not sure _what_ he wants— he’s pretty sure he’s never once in his life wanted to _lactate_ , but equally, he can’t say he’s ever expressly _not_ wanted to, and he doesn’t want to give up— to give up _her_ , or what they’ve been working towards, even if he’s still not entirely sure what that is.

“Wait,” he mumbles, throat drier than probably the entirety of Dragon Empire.

Morfessa raises an eyebrow.

“Th-there’s a lot to learn, right, like you said,” he adds, quickly, probably too quickly, but it’s been clear right from the very first time she called him in here and started taking her clothes off that he can’t hide anything from her anyway. “You can learn from this, too. Maybe it has its own weird properties.” The _it_ sounds strange and unnatural in his mouth, unable to mask the weight of the words _my milk_ behind it, but he barrels on before he can start _thinking_ again. “So maybe we shouldn’t stop just yet. I don’t know.”

The hand on his shoulder draws away, and Morfessa takes a step back from him, folding her arms over her naked chest.

“Are you sure?” she asks, and her tone is curious, but tempered by the seriousness with which she always holds matters of consent. “Let me be frank: if you’re only interested in retaining an intimate relationship between us, we can do _that_ without all of _this_.”

Luard’s not sure what to say about that.

“N-no,” his voice supplies for him, before he can really process it. “I want— I want _this_.”

It’s true, he thinks, his brain floundering under the weight of so many bombshells at once. Trying to picture things one way or the other is like wading through sludge, clinging and tearing away thoughts and concepts before he can grasp them, but— but he’s proud of what they’ve made here, together, despite the insane, embarrassing nature of, well, everything; he’s taken everything she’s had to give and she’s held and praised and cared for him at every turn, and he’s grown _so_ close to admitting how much the warmth of her breasts is starting to feel like home. Lactating, when he thinks about it, can’t be _that_ bad; she’s been doing it this whole time, after all, and it hasn’t taken away from her power or confidence at all. If anything, it’s given her even more of an air of dominance.

“Are you going to have to…” he blurts, “you know...?”

“...Milk you?” she finishes, and he nods dumbly. She laughs, low and satisfied. “I won’t drink from you, if that’s what you mean. Not for now, anyway. I’d prefer to devise a pump and a system to collect it, at first. It’s very clinical, I know, sorry.”

“No, no.” he stumbles over the words, cheeks prickling, then rights himself. “Clinical is… good for now.” _It’s certainly safer_. Trying to imagine the soft shape of Morfessa’s lips on him, _drinking_ from him, is liable to fry whatever is left of his brain, so he drops his gaze back to the relative safety of her chest, to the smooth curves of her breasts resting on her folded arms.

“I think,” Morfessa says, her chest heaving as she lets out a slow breath that almost makes _her_ look like the terminally nervous one, “that you should take some time to think about this. We can discuss it at your morning feeding tomorrow. Is that alright?”

She’s being careful. She’s always so careful, and Luard wants to insist that it’s _fine_ , that he’s already agreed to it, that he doesn’t need to spend all night rolling insane ideas around in his head and working himself into a frenzy over the fact that _he’s fucking lactating_ , but Morfessa’s professionalism and care are the main things that set her apart, the things that prove she’s not just a cruel, domineering witch manipulating his body for their own goals.

So he dips his head to her, and she smiles, and it’s the smile he’s come to trust, and after she unties him and he’s permitted to dress himself again, he pulls his robe just a bit more closed over his chest than usual.

“Tomorrow,” she reminds him as he leaves, arms crossed defensively over himself, “same time as always. Don’t be late~”

(He _is_ late, because he slept in again, but this time she only makes him kiss her boots _once_ before she graciously forgives him.)

**Author's Note:**

> Okay I'm gonna die if I have to look at this any longer so please let me know if there's any miss steaks. I WILL CONTINUE THIS ANON I PROMISE IT'S COMING THIS IS THE START OF A NARRATIVE THAT'S GONNA LIKE GO SOMEWHERE ACTUALLY but later because I really gotta finish these damn prompts first. Maybe sometime in the new year. Please hold me to it nnjdhgskjhgs
> 
> Twitter: @cosmowreath (If you make friends with me, you too can prod me into writing your weirdly specific kinks!)


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